Time's Up
by cheride
Summary: It's been five years since Mark was sent to prison for grand theft auto. What now?


_Time's Up- cheride_

_Rating: G_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_A/N: I've wondered for years (sad, but true!) just what Mark was thinking when he kept quiet about the end of his parole. Now, I've been staring at these words for almost two weeks because I just wasn't sure this was the answer I was expecting. Oh, well. Never argue with the characters. :-)_

* * *

Mark McCormick placed the pool chemicals into the bed of the GMC quickly, mindful of the time. He climbed purposefully into the cab, threw the truck in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot. He didn't want to be late.

He maneuvered the pickup through the Los Angeles surface streets easily; driving remained second nature to the young man, though it seemed a lifetime since he'd spent any real time on a track. But the almost mindless task of moving the vehicle toward its destination gave him plenty of time for other thoughts, and the first one was that he was glad Hardcastle hadn't asked where he'd been going.

He pulled to a smooth stop at a traffic light and followed the thought through. No, of course the judge hadn't asked, because he had known McCormick would return. But when had that become the case? When had Hardcastle given up the tiny suspicion that the ex-convict paroled into his custody might jump at an opportunity to disappear forever rather than stay and honor the terms of their rather unusual parole agreement?

As he continued through the intersection, McCormick realized that that first level of trust had actually come fairly early in their relationship, probably even earlier than it should have. Not that he counted that first solitary drive from Las Vegas back to L.A. after the completion of their first case together. No, McCormick understood that was not trust. That had been a test. He had known it at the time, and, even years later, he still wasn't bothered by the idea. After all, if he was never given the chance to run, how would Hardcastle know he never would?

But after that weekend, Hardcastle had loosened his reigns fairly quickly. Oh, they had spent a cautious month or so together, each uncertain of the other's true intentions. And in those wary weeks, it had seemed that they were practically joined at the hip. But soon enough Hardcastle was sending the young man on short errands, or running his own while leaving McCormick alone at Gulls Way, the judge's Malibu estate they now shared, and the freedom had grown from there. With no discussion or fanfare, it had simply evolved that McCormick would come and go as he chose, because Hardcastle was confident that his young charge would come back. And he always had.

McCormick smiled slightly as he turned the next corner reflexively. Of course he had gone back; what other choice did he have?

For a very brief time he had returned faithfully because to do otherwise would have meant an immediate return to San Quentin, and that had been unthinkable. But it hadn't taken long before he was returning to Gulls Way simply because there was no place he would rather be. And...because betraying Milton Hardcastle had somehow become even more unthinkable than returning to prison.

As McCormick braked slightly and waved another motorist into the opening in traffic, he shook his head slowly. He had spent a lot of time recently thinking about his time with Hardcastle, especially those early days. Things could easily have been very different, and he honestly had never expected that it would turn out the way it had. But all of his thinking had only left him more confused than he had been before, and now he found himself almost dreading the moment for which he had waited three years.

He pulled off the street and into the parking lot, found an open spot, and shut off the engine. Glancing again at his watch, he found that his anxiety over the time had actually caused him to be a bit early, so he took a moment to gather his thoughts and calm his nerves. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a well-worn letter. Unfolding the single sheet of paper, he double-checked the details for what seemed the millionth time. And, as he often did, he found a sort of dry humor in the direct, emotionless language. Only the government could make what should be a celebratory occasion seem like a day in hell.

_Mr. McCormick:_

_The California Department of Pardons and Parole wishes to inform you that, effective the date of March 21, 1986, you will have served the complete sentence imposed upon you in the year 1981, and will bear no further obligation to the State._

_Please arrange to meet with Officer John Dalem at 10:30am on the above-mentioned date to finalize your release from this Department._

McCormick smiled to himself as he replaced the page into his jacket and climbed out of the truck. He started briskly toward the office building to keep his appointment with destiny.

As he entered the elevator, it occurred to McCormick that three years ago he had literally been counting the days until this date. But, when the letter had arrived in the mail last week, he had almost been surprised. Not that he had exactly lost track of the time—not exactly. But his official release date had certainly become less and less important as time had gone by. He stood outside Dalem's office door for just a moment and reflected on how that had come to be. But, of course, the answer was simple: it had been years since his parole agreement had been the force binding him to Hardcastle. The only question remaining now was how this change in his official status would alter his life with the judge. But he didn't have that answer now any more than he'd had it for the last week, so he took a breath and stepped back in time.

* * *

He approached the receptionist in the outer office. "Hello. I'm Mark McCormick, and I have an appointment with Mr. Dalem." The first time he had spoken those words, his heart had been beating rapidly with an unusual fear, and his future had seemed uncertain. Strange how history seemed to be repeating itself.

"He's expecting you, Mr. McCormick," the young woman replied. "Go right in."

McCormick took a last calming breath, straightened his tie—old habits died hard—and entered the private office.

"Mr. Dalem," he said as he closed the door behind him, "long time no see."

"It's been a while," Dalem agreed. "Have a seat, McCormick." He opened a file on his desk. "Even though Judge Hardcastle has been serving in the role of your parole officer for the last couple of years, I have maintained official possession of your case here at the Board, which is why it was necessary to have you meet with me today."

"That's not a problem, Mr. Dalem. I've been waiting a long time for this."

"I'll tell you the truth, McCormick; I wasn't sure this day would arrive."

McCormick smiled slightly. Dalem always had been the very voice of confidence. But, still... "There were moments I had my own doubts," McCormick admitted. "But here we are."

"So we are," Dalem replied. He reached into his file and handed a single sheet of paper across the desk. "All we need is a signature, and your release will be official."

McCormick read over the brief paragraph outlining the fact that all restrictions placed upon him as a condition of parole had been lifted, and that he would bear no further obligation to the Board of Parole or the California Department of Corrections. He grabbed a pen from the desk and signed.

"So that's it?" McCormick asked, as he passed the page back to Dalem. "I'm free?" Surely there was more involved in giving a man back his life?

But apparently there was not. "That's it," Dalem answered, as he signed his own name in the appropriate area. "Your sentence has been served." He placed the paper back into the file folder, and looked up at McCormick. "So what now?"

McCormick shook his head slowly. _What now?_ That really was the question, wasn't it? "I'm not sure," he replied honestly. "I guess I'll just do what I always do: make it up as I go along." He rose from his chair.

Dalem rose from his own seat and extended his hand. "Good luck to you, Mr. McCormick."

Surprised, McCormick shook the offered hand. "Thank you." He turned to leave, but Dalem's voice stopped him at the door.

"I don't want to see you back here again."

McCormick smiled slightly. "No, sir, Mr. Dalem. Whatever plans I may have, they definitely do not include you." And with those words, Mark McCormick left the parole officer behind, and closed the door on his past.

* * *

Back in the GMC and pointed toward Malibu, McCormick once more found himself lost in his thoughts. _Your sentence has been served._ Dalem's words repeated themselves again and again in his mind. Five years ago, when he had entered San Quentin, this moment had seemed a lifetime away. And three years ago, when he had walked out of the prison gates, he had vowed he would do anything to ensure he would actually see this day.

But two and a half years ago, when his best friend had been murdered and he had tried to exact his own form of justice, McCormick had been certain he had given up the opportunity to celebrate this particular anniversary. He was sure Hardcastle would send him away forever. And when the judge had made him that crazy offer of partnership, well...he had suddenly believed Quentin seemed the lesser of the evils. Thank God Hardcastle was a stubborn old donkey and wouldn't take no for an answer.

McCormick chuckled slightly. Not the most auspicious beginning, but it had certainly ended well.

**_ENDED?_** He almost slammed on the brakes in alarm as the thought ran through his head. What did he mean, _ended_? Who said it had to end?

Well, no one had said it had to end, he thought as he continued down the road, but he could admit that was the source of his confusion. After all, no one had said it would continue, either. Really, he couldn't believe the judge hadn't said _something_, one way or the other. Of course, in fairness, he hadn't said anything himself, either. But what was he supposed to say? He couldn't very well tell Hardcastle just how thrilled he was that his parole had finally ended. How did he say that without risking the judge's feelings? Not that Hardcastle wouldn't understand how important it was to McCormick—of course he would understand. But even so, McCormick knew that any expression of relief over the end of his parole would be perceived as relief that he was finally free of the unusual custody arrangement, even though that's not what he would mean at all.

On the other hand, surely Hardcastle knew it was time. Even if he didn't have the date committed to memory, he would have to know it was imminent. If McCormick kept quiet, would the judge think he was just trying to take advantage in some way? He certainly didn't want that.

And, on top of all the confusion about who would believe what about whom, McCormick still had a very real question about what he truly wanted to do with the rest of his life.

Should he stay at Gulls Way, fighting crime with a self-appointed Lone Ranger? That was a noble cause, to be sure, but was it really practical? Should he move out and search for that "real job" he had so often despaired of ever finding? He didn't have a lot of skills or experience, but surely there was something he could do. Or, should he go back to his first love and make one last try at success on the circuit? For most of his life he had wanted to race professionally, but—like so many things—that dream seemed to have changed in his time with Hardcastle.

It didn't seem fair, somehow, that this should be so difficult. Now, when he was finally free of the rules and regulations that had governed his life for the last five years...free to make his own choices about his own life...he found that he didn't even know what choice he wanted to make. What he did know, however, was that he would have to choose carefully. Regardless of his official status, he did not intend to disappoint Milton Hardcastle. Ever.

He continued his drive toward Malibu, and he again found his thoughts in the past rather than the future. Suddenly, his mind was filled with a parade of images. Images of basketball and bad guys; fishing trips and poker games; rekindled flames and lost friends; near misses and close calls; arguments and jokes; laugher and tears.

And through all of the memories—good and bad—Mark McCormick smiled.

By the time he exited I-10 to the Pacific Coast Highway, McCormick understood that his choices seemed difficult because it was probably the first time in his life he had actually had real choices, and he knew he had Judge Hardcastle to thank for that.

And, by the time he passed the Malibu city limits sign, he had realized that whatever choices were before him, he would not have to face them alone.

And, finally, though he had served his time and now had a lifetime of freedom ahead of him, by the time he pulled off the PCH and into the drive at Gulls Way, Mark McCormick knew that he was home.


End file.
